I know it’s both low and facile to make light of a political figure just on account of how he looks, but honestly, it’s hard not to throw such jibes into the mix when you utterly despise the louse for lots of other excellent, unrelated reasons. What, I’m going to rant about Trump without occasionally throwing in a crack about his weird little pie hole? Or his big old paunch? Or – c’mon, give me a break – his hair? I’m supposed to keep mum about the hair? You could argue that the way Fat Donnie dresses, wears his hair, and keeps getting paunchier, plus that god-awful paint-by-numbers orange complexion that he applies unevenly and with often hilarious results, are essential elements of just how huge a dick he is. Anyway, it’s spooky sometimes how much people look exactly like the foul, miserable bastards they really are, like, for example, Mike Pence – you’d guess that Mike was a bigoted religious extremist and borderline Nazi just from one still photo (apologies as always to Godwin). Or take Bill Barr – could he possibly look more like the smug, bullying monstrosity he truly is?
So OK, maybe it’s not strictly fair play, but dammit, these guys deserve it. They’ve got it coming. You just know they all bullied the kid with glasses back in elementary school. You can tell they abuse underlings and make their wives think continually of ending it all. Thus I feel it’s appropriate to point out that erstwhile National Security Advisor Michael Flynn, the apparently scot-free criminal consort of Russian ambassadors and all-around ramrod bon vivant, has a head that looks exactly like something Paul Bunyan would’ve swung at the mightiest of oaks. He also bears an uncanny resemblance to Sam the Eagle, the Muppet Show’s ultra-patriotic caricature of upright block-headedness:
You see it too, admit it.
Now, one of the very, very few mitigating crumbs of joy to be savoured thus far in the new Dark Age of Trump was the sweet certainty that Flynn, good old Mr. Lock-Her-Up himself, was very shortly heading straight to the slam. Donald tried to protect him. Personal hero Sally Yates was summarily dismissed in part because of Flynn, who, she realized immediately and with real shock, had lied to the FBI about his dealings with the Russians, and was therefore a blackmailable security risk of the first order. So long Sally. We have no use any more for your kind around here. It was over Flynn that James Comey, too, was shown the door. Yet despite all the interference Trump ran for him, the hatchet-faced fibber was duly prosecuted, made a deal with the Feds, and pled guilty. The presiding Judge wanted to know why nobody was suggesting treason as one of the charges, but a deal was a deal, and he pled to it. Twice.
But then he fired his defence team, and his new lawyers withdrew his guilty plea, which apparently is possible under the relevant rules of criminal procedure. He was still awaiting trial when, God damn the whole crooked lot of them, Bill Barr decided to do yet more of Trump’s bidding and ordered the prosecuting attorneys to move to drop the charges.
Drop the charges! Donald won’t even have to abuse his power to pardon the miserable S.O.B.!
We were so close.
That Bill Barr, that guy, I tell ya. I’d like to take a swing at him with the broad side of shovel, I really would. By the time he and Donnie are done, the rule of law will be nothing but a fond memory, and he’ll face nothing but the judgment of history for turning America into a banana republic, which doesn’t worry Bill; he chortled during a recent CBS interview that history is, after all, written by the winners, so we’ll see. Hyuk.
They’re not through, either, you can feel it. You can smell it on them. There are other wrongdoers to spring, and honest civil servants to persecute. Miles to go. Swear to God, when this is over the whole crew of ’em, Donnie, Barr, Pence, Pompeo, Manafort, Stone, Flynn, and with my luck Sheriff Joe Arpaio to boot – remember him, bless his pointy little racist head? – will get together in the bar at Trump’s Washington hotel and have a great big happy drink fest. They’ll eat their weight in greasy finger food, drink buckets of scotch, and top off the evening snorting 12 inch lines of the best Columbian coke straight off the bar, before retiring upstairs with two call girls apiece. That’s how they’ll do it if they’re trying to kill me, and I really do believe at this point that they’re trying to kill me.
No fair! No fair that I get to die of a stroke before Fat Donnie does!